


what friends are for

by Lexie



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexie/pseuds/Lexie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>After class, walking in step with ponytails swaying and books tucked into the crooks of their arm, Santana says, "You didn't do the reading."</i></p><p><i>"There were too many words, and rhyming makes me feel like I'm going to throw up," Brittany says very seriously, after half a second.</i></p><p>Santana and Brittany's friendship, from middle school through the summer before sophomore year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what friends are for

Until Lima's two middle schools came together into one freshman class at William McKinley High School, Santana and Brittany were SantanaandBrittany. They walked in step, took all the same classes, rode the bus together before and after school every day, and Santana did a good enough job of tripping Dave Keller in the second floor stairwell in seventh grade that the teachers were none the wiser, the entire student body knew who put Dave in that cast, and nobody ever called Brittany a retard again.

The summer before freshman year, Memorial Middle School only sent one graduate of its cheerleading squad to Cheerios pre-season training: a scrawny (Santana's observation) shiny-haired (Brittany's observation) blonde with some hippie one-syllable name. She looked and sounded like she belonged on _Gossip Girl_, just with more praying and Jesus references.

Santana hated her from the start. Brittany liked her hair.

Within three weeks, they had formed a cold-blooded strategic alliance to become Quinn and SantanaandBrittany. Within three and a half, they were terrorizing the rest of the freshman recruits, much to Coach Sylvester's general approval.

They were the only three freshmen to make the team.

* * *

"I don't know," Brittany says dully, once again.

"How about the chapters you were supposed to read for homework?"

Brittany's face doesn't move. Her mouth does, though, since she's not some ventriloquist freak like Jeremy Renko (who tried to start a club for it and got all the slushies-to-face that he deserved). Her tone doesn't go up or down one bit. "I don't know."

"The name of the play?" Mrs. Lewis asks from the front of the room, clearly starting to get annoyed.

"I don't know."

"And the author?"

"I don't know."

Mrs. Lewis folds her arms. "Brittany, are you telling me you don't know who wrote 'Hamlet'?"

Brittany gives this three extra seconds' consideration, and then she says, "I don't know." Something flickers across her face, there and gone too fast for even Santana to figure out what that emotion was supposed to be. It's clear what's left over, though: sulkiness.

Santana swiftly sticks her hand up in the most belligerent way possible; sprawled at her desk, she puts on her very best _ignore me if you dare, old lady_ face. "Mrs. Lewis," she says, and when the teacher turns her way, she fake-smiles -- strong enough that everyone in the room, Mrs. Lewis included, knows she's faking -- and tilts her head so her ponytail will swing. "I have to go to the bathroom."

The resulting argument over Mrs. Lewis's totally gay no-bathroom-breaks policy is cold and catty and ugly, and takes all the attention off Brittany. Santana is too busy maintaining eye contact with Lewis (lesson number six from Coach Sylvester: face down your prey like a hungry lion about to fell a wildebeest on the prairie) to see it, but Brittany's blank expression shifts just enough to allow the tiniest of smiles.

* * *

After class, walking in step with ponytails swaying and books tucked into the crooks of their arm, Santana says, "You didn't do the reading."

"There were too many words, and rhyming makes me feel like I'm going to throw up," Brittany says very seriously, after half a second.

"We _have_ to come up with a better way to hide it when you don't know what you're talking about," Santana says. "I almost didn't block the bitch fast enough this time; she's going to start trying to put you in sped classes."

"--Oh," says Brittany. "That would be bad." There is almost a question mark at the end of that sentence, til she darts her eyes at Santana and sees Santana nodding. "Okay." Beat. "I knew what 'Hamlet' was about."

Santana shoots a dubious sideways look at her.

"I just didn't feel like talking." She exhales quietly. "So much effort."

"How do you know what Hamlet is about?"

She looks from side to side and lowers her voice. "My sister was in drama club," she says. "I helped her learn her lines. I remember. The play name had 'ham' in it. It was like 'omelette,' but with ham. Hamelette."

"Okay," says Santana, "One: _ew!_ Two: never tell that to anyone else ever again."

"Which part?"

"All of it," Santana says, grim and disdainful at once. "The meat, the relative in the social death zone."

Pause, then: "Okay. It's secret now."

"But we can use it."

Two days later, without being called on, Brittany recites Hamlet's full soliloquy in front of the entire class. It is, granted, in a dead voice and it comes out of nowhere, but she gets it right, and Mrs. Lewis stops eyeing her like she's a problem to solve and more like she's yet another idiot savant William McKinley student.

Brittany and Santana link celebratory pinkies in the aisle between their desks.

* * *

It becomes very clear very early that the only way to legitimately reach head cheerleader status is to have seniority and be the very best. It's the seniority that the sophomores are struggling with, but Quinn says, "Leave it to me" with an easy smile, and three weeks into pre-season training, senior Mandy Dolittle has gained three pounds and has been kicked off the squad. The mantle passes to Courtney Vasquez, a tiny junior who takes no crap from anybody and can't be cowed or turned fat.

It's a problem.

"We're never going to get rid of that whore," Santana says in a post-lunch (protein shake) huddle one day, and Brittany actually looks thoughtful for a second.

* * *

"Knees straight!" Coach Sylvester barks through the bullhorn. "Straight! Straighter than an NFL star at an underage groupie convention! I see that shaking, second row!"

Santana senses Brittany quickly stand up straighter beside her. They're on the second level of the formation (they always are; it's what happens when you're too tall to be flyers). Madison Kahn has her white Ked on Santana's shoulder and is holding her other leg up by her head, and,_ God_, she really needs to invest in some hedge trimmers. It looks like the rain forest up under that skirt.

That movement from Brittany was actually weird, Santana thinks; she might be a space cadet when it comes to the rest of the world, but on the football field or the dance floor, Brittany is a fucking genius. She's the one Cheerio who never needs to be re-taught choreography and who rarely gets in trouble for holding poor form. Her footing is rock solid, even when she's standing on two guys' hands like she is now.

Santana risks a glance over, still holding her Cheerio smile and her pose. Brittany is absently staring at the guy who's rocking out with the Miracle-Gro hose behind the bleachers, her face slack. Santana would kick her if she could.

"Hey!" bellows Coach. "Blonde bimbo, second tier! Do I need to come over there? You don't want me to come over there."

"Step it up, ladies!" Courtney Vasquez yelps from her place on the top of the pyramid, mirroring Jungle Junk Kahn. Brittany starts at the sudden high-pitched voice, her chin whipping up and her whole body swaying, shoulders jerking in the process, and on top of her, Courtney drops her raised leg and windmills her arms as she fights to regain her balance. Madison shrieks and Courtney topples backward off the formation.

Coach Sylvester starts to march across the field, barking about how she told them they didn't want her to come over there. Courtney is swearing from somewhere in the grass, cussing out Brittany and her own arm.

Santana turns -- as much as she can with Madison still balanced on her shoulders -- and stares at Brittany, who looks like she did the time that her mom came home while she and Santana were in the middle of putting lipstick on her little brother. "...Oops," says Brittany slowly. When no one else is looking, she sneaks a little glance at Santana and her eyes brighten.

Santana realizes with a jolt what just happened, and she thinks in admiration: You beautiful sneaky bitch.

* * *

Santana slams the door of the minivan that she borrows from her mom for Cheerios practices, and then she turns to Brittany, who is looking at her from the passenger seat. "That," says Santana with deep approval, "was, _brilliant_." Nobody, _nobody_ is going to suspect ambitionless Brittany of having done that on purpose. Laughing, Santana throws her arms around Brittany, who immediately beams and hugs her back. The gear shift is on the wheel, so they're leaning in to hug across open space and Brittany's arm rest.

"I learned it from you," Brittany says happily into Santana's shoulder. God, she's like a giant puppy sometimes. She shifts and then her nose is pressed against Santana's neck, breathing there, and Santana slides her hands up her back, fingertips brushing her ponytail. Her face is suddenly, bizarrely hot.

Santana recognizes the flip-flop in the pit of her stomach for what it is (she's nothing if not practical -- mercenary, some would say -- and she's been having sex since she lost her virginity in the marching band shed when she was 14) and she has about a half a second to decide what to do about it. In the end, it doesn't matter.

The back door rolls open. "Brittany, you're amazing," Quinn breathes, and she flings herself into their hug.

* * *

Two weeks later, at a drunk party around a campfire, Santana can't get a boy's attention. That's 100% unacceptable. She doesn't want Finn Hudson and his big stupid eyes and giant feet; she just hates that Little Miss Chastity Spankies has gotten there first. Quinn's not even at this party (of course Goody Two Shoes Head Cheerleader herself isn't at this party), but everybody's talking about her and clapping Finn Hudson on the shoulder, and Santana isn't going to put up with this shit anymore. She squeezes through the crowd, shoving people out of her way, her blood buzzing with irritation and three vodka tonics, and she grabs Brittany by the hand.

Brittany blinks inquisitively at her from her seat on a log. Matt Something from the football team is sitting close and looks annoyed at the interruption to their flirtation.

"Oh, keep your girl panties on," Santana snaps at him. "It's not like she had her hand down your pants." She drags Brittany away; she's pretty sure Brittany waves at Matt as she goes.

"Where are we going?" Brittany asks, as Santana hauls her across a packed-down forest floor of dried mud and fallen leaves. This place by the fire looks good; it's well lit and close enough to the party that they'll be noticed, but far enough that they won't be lost in the crowd.

"Brit," Santana says briskly, her hand on the back of Brittany's neck, "go with this," and then she pulls her into a searing kiss.

Brit goes with it. She really, _really_ goes with it, clutching at Santana's shirt with one hand while her other still balances her Solo cup. Brittany is the one to introduce tongue. Santana tightens her hands over Brittany's hips and almost forgets to keep one eye cracked to gauge the general reaction.

Almost.

From the reaction: Santana (and Brittany) has still got it.

"Are they watching?" Brittany asks when Santana draws back. Her voice is pitched low and a satisfied, distantly smug smile is hovering at the corners of her mouth. They have their arms loosely wrapped around each other, foreheads and noses brushing, and are pretending not to notice the applause.

Santana can always count on Brittany to get it when it counts. "You bet your ass," Santana says matter of factly, her smile curving. "We're the hottest things here."

Brittany seems to think about this. "Can we be the hottest things here again?" she asks.

Santana nips her lower lip in response, and Brittany lights up with one of her huge smiles, then starts helping Santana make them the stars of the party.

Santana doesn't have a friend she'd rather make out with.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Awesome Ladies Ficathon of 2010 on LiveJournal.


End file.
